Drink to Me Only
by TartanLioness
Summary: He couldn't remember the last time he had overdone his whiskey quite so spectacularly. Even Foyle isn't in complete control when he's inebriated. Sam/Foyle.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes

Author: TartanLioness

A/N: The title is taken from the poem by Ben Jonson, and while it is often associated with the Temperance Movement and the belief that men should be able to love and raise families without alcohol, the original poem is actually quite romantic. More about the poet's soul being more satisfied by a look or a kiss from his beloved (or her presence), than his thirst would be quenched by the most divine drink known to man. As always, many thanks to my wonderful beta dancesabove for her work beyond the call of duty.

Part of the poem:

Drink to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine;

Or leave a kiss within the cup,

And I'll not ask for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise

Doth ask a drink divine;

But might I of Jove's nectar sup

I would not change for thine.

…

As Sam walked home through the darkened streets of Hastings, she pondered men. Not in any lascivious way; in fact, she was feeling rather maudlin as she contemplated her bad luck with men lately. Of course by 'men', she meant two in particular: Andrew, who had informed her by way of letter that he had met someone else, and Joe, with whom she had spent the evening.

If she were completely honest with herself, she would admit that the end of her decidedly chaste and unexciting relationship with Andrew had not saddened her as much as she thought it ought to have done. The few, brief kisses they had shared had not inspired any great longing in her, and the lack of time spent together had meant that her feelings for the young RAF pilot were rather lukewarm.

And Joe? Well, Joe had been a mistake from the beginning. She'd had an idea in her head about Hollywood and Clark Gable, and Joe had been so insistent… it wasn't that she didn't _like_ Joe, just as she didn't dislike Andrew. It was just that they were so spectacularly mismatched; she wondered how she'd ever thought they might fit. Joe was everything she had always imagined a stereotypical American would be: brash, bold, handsome, and cheeky bordering on insolent. She was sure she might enjoy his company if it were for a few hours and only occasionally. But she couldn't imagine stepping out with him. He was too…

_Immature_, she thought with a sigh. Of course, it didn't help that dancing with Joe at the American ball the other night had meant that her boss had apparently thought that she was deceiving his son, which had led to an awkward (though mercifully brief) conversation by the Wolseley during which she explained the way Andrew had broken up with her. Foyle had looked at her sympathetically, though, and thanked her for telling him.

Of course, she remembered with a small smile, earlier tonight he had also apologised for the conclusions he had drawn about her, looking so utterly uncomfortable but also so sincerely remorseful that she'd had no difficulty in forgiving him.

Sam passed the dark form of St. Clement's Church and continued up Steep Lane; it just so happened that the most direct route from The Royal Oak to her digs went past Mr Foyle's house. It had nothing to do with her strange desire to be near him, even if he wouldn't know she was there and even if she would never presume to linger outside his home unless she had official business there. Absolutely nothing.

She was almost at Foyle's house when she saw a Jeep pull up next to it, and she barely had time to wonder what business an American vehicle had at Foyle's doorstep in the middle of the night before the passenger-side door opened and her boss stepped out of the car.

…

Foyle had been decidedly grateful when Captain Kieffer offered him a lift back. Of course neither man was in any condition to drive, but Kieffer had quickly summoned a young private and asked him to drive the Detective Chief Superintendent home.

The private, who remembered Foyle from the talk he had given, immediately brought a Jeep around, and Foyle settled into the passenger seat. At first he thought little of it, but as the car began to move he felt more and more uncomfortable, sitting as he was in the wrong side of the car. It was a curious feeling; it was as if he ought to be driving the car, only he wasn't. Well, it was all right, he supposed. At least somehow they managed to follow the road. The fact that the headlights were shuttered and Jeeps weren't what you'd call smooth rides at the best of times didn't exactly assuage his nausea.

He closed his eyes and fleetingly wondered how long it had been since he had overdone his whiskey quite so spectacularly. A long time, certainly.

It had been a good evening though; he'd enjoyed Captain Kieffer's company immensely and somehow they'd managed to drink nearly all the bottle of Jack Daniel's while sharing fishing stories and cataloguing the similarities and differences between their countries. Foyle was certain that, being somewhat smaller in stature than Kieffer, he had been far more affected by the alcohol than the American had.

The vehicle swerved and came to an abrupt halt, and Foyle briefly considered telling Sam off; then he realised that his driver was a burly-looking boy from Birmingham, Alabama and not rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed Samantha Stewart. He sighed, opening his eyes at last. The Jeep was haphazardly parked on the wrong side of the road, near his front step. With another sigh, Foyle thanked the young private and opened the door, stepping precariously onto the pavement.

Just as he walked up the steps to his front door, he heard her voice. For a moment he worried that he had drunk enough to be hallucinating, but then Sam stepped up to him and he decided that even after two years of working with her he couldn't hallucinate her in quite that much detail. Surely he wouldn't be able to so perfectly imagine the way she smelled and the way the small hairs at the nape of her neck caught what little light there was, nor the look of concern in her warm brown eyes and the feeling of her hand on his arm as she steadied him.

"Sir? Are you feeling all right?"

"Yes, yes, absolutely," he replied, trying and failing to unlock his front door. Gently, Sam took the key from him and within seconds he was being ushered inside his dark hallway, the door closing softly behind them.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Foyle had never before realised just how narrow his hallway could feel. Yet here he was, in a dark house feeling preciously sentimental, and there _she_ was; right there next to him, her nimble fingers helping him off with his coat. She smelled heavenly and he realised with a start that she _mustn't_ be here—he couldn't have her in his house, his empty, lonely house, while he was feeling like this—while he wasn't in control of his every action.

"I'm going to make you a cup of tea," she declared, leading the way through his sitting room and into the kitchen, leaving him feeling decidedly unsteady.

Following her into his kitchen, he sat down on one of the chairs next to the small table and watched her bustle about.

"What are you doing here, Sam?" he asked slowly. "Aren't you supposed to be out with that American?"

Sam looked over to where he was sitting. "Oh, yes, sir. I was just on my way home when I saw you."

"He didn't walk you home?" Foyle thought indignantly, then realised that he had spoken aloud. He really shouldn't have Sam here when he was obviously not in control of himself.

Sam didn't seem to mind though. Breezily she said, "Oh, he offered to. I told him I'd rather walk alone. I was afraid I might do something discourteous if I spent much more time with him."

"Oh. I do hope he wasn't a complete jerk."

Sam looked surprised. "Jerk, sir?"

"Yess… a jerk is… never mind," he stumbled, closing his eyes as his world spun.

For a moment nothing was said. Then he heard a soft clunk as Sam set down a cup of tea on the table in front of him. He picked it up gratefully, sipping the hot liquid slowly. She sat down across the table with her own cup of tea and he watched her through bleary eyes, marvelling that even at this time of night, in her drab uniform, she looked beautiful.

"Beautiful, and completely unattainable, so don't even think about it, Foyle," he muttered to himself.

Sam looked up from her tea cup sharply, certain that she had misheard him. Surely he couldn't be talking about her? But he was looking directly at her (admittedly with rather sleepy-looking eyes) speaking under his breath. She wondered if he even realised he was talking out loud.

"Sir? Are you talking about me?"

He looked startled for a moment, and then rubbed his hand across his face, closing his eyes tightly for a few seconds. Every nerve in his body begged him to be quiet, to lie, to tell her anything but…

"You're a very beautiful woman, Sam. Surely you know that."

…that. The truth.

She felt as startled as he looked. While she supposed he couldn't have worked with her for two years without forming some opinion of her looks, she was astounded that he'd ever thought of her in terms of attainability.

_He doesn't know what he's saying,_ she decided, firmly telling herself not to hope. _He has had too much to drink. _

"I think you should head to bed, sir," she said softly.

For a few moments he just stared at her; then he nodded in agreement and put down his now-empty teacup. He swayed a little as he stood up and she was immediately beside him, her hand steady on his arm, helping him.

Her scent so close to him and the feeling of her hand on his arm nearly drove him to distraction in his inebriated state, and when they'd finally finished their slow ascent of the stairs and reached the upper floor, Foyle paused, turned to her and reached out his hand.

He saw his own fingers with amazing clarity as he gently stroked Sam's cheek with the back of his knuckles, her skin smooth and soft against his. Her eyes were huge and dark as she held her breath.

He knew it was a bad idea. He knew that he had no right to take such advantage of her trust in him; but he couldn't help himself. It happened before he even knew it and suddenly his lips were taking hers in a deep kiss.

Sam's startled gasp broke through the haze in his mind and he pulled back sharply. For a fleeting second they stared at each other. Then Foyle closed his eyes in trepidation and quickly disappeared into his room.

Sam stood stock-still on the landing as she tried to process what had just happened. She could count on one hand the number of times the two of them had intentionally touched, and now all of a sudden he was caressing her cheek and—and kissing her! She allowed herself a moment to remember the feeling of his hand against her skin and slightly more than a moment to recall the pressure of his warm, firm lips on hers. It had been too brief altogether, she decided. She hadn't even managed to respond to his kiss. It was rather depressing, she thought, as it was unlikely to happen again anytime soon.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Slowly Sam made her way back downstairs to clear away the tea things, then filled a glass with water and went back upstairs. She hesitated by his bedroom door, listening intently. When she heard a light snoring from within, she opened the door and went inside. Even when she'd spent a week in the house after her own billet was bombed, she had never seen his room, and now that she had the chance she looked around carefully, taking it in. It was sparsely furnished with only a nearly empty vanity, a dresser, a chair, two nightstands and a bed. The bed was wide and comfortable-looking and its sole inhabitant was sleeping soundly. His clothes had been placed in a pile on a chair—not exactly as neatly as she would have imagined, but she supposed even Foyle was allowed a little leeway, given that he was quite obviously smashed.

Sam smiled at the man huddled under the covers and tip-toed over to place the glass of water on his bedside table. Beside it she placed some aspirin, imagining that he might need one or two when he finally woke up.

Then she picked up the items of clothing on the chair and folded them carefully before placing them back on the chair.

As she prepared to leave she cast one more glance around the room and blushed as her eyes settled on a pair of pyjamas at the foot of the bed. _What is he wearing?_ she thought; then realised with an even deeper blush that he must be clad in only his shorts. She quickly fought down the flash of desire and longing she felt at that thought—it would be a very bad idea indeed to climb into bed with her boss and cuddle with him, no matter how drunk he might be.

A deep moan cut through her thoughts and she turned her eyes to the sleeping man who was just shifting in the bed, placing a hairy arm over the covers rather than under. Sam stared at it in fascination; she'd never seen his arms bare before—Foyle wasn't really the type to roll up his sleeves while on duty—and the knowledge that they were strong and intensely masculine gave her a strange sort of thrill.

"Sam," sighed the sleeping form and she started, her eyes darting back to his face. But his eyes were still closed and he was breathing evenly. Satisfied that she hadn't been discovered, Sam tore herself away from the sight of him and left the room.

Back in his kitchen, she contemplated the situation. It was clear that she oughtn't to spend the night uninvited in Foyle's house, but she didn't want to leave him in his condition. Most likely he'd sleep like a log all night, but what if he woke up and needed her? Besides, it was awfully late now and her landlady certainly wouldn't appreciate her coming home after curfew. In fact, Sam would be in for quite an earful if she came home now. She bit her lip.

Decision made, Sam turned off the electrical lights and quietly made her way to the room she'd once occupied for a week before finding a new place to live. The door closed firmly behind her, she sighed deeply, removed her jacket, and reached up under her skirt to release her stockings from the suspenders. She carefully rolled them down her legs until they were around her ankles, then stepped out of one shoe at a time and pulled them off her feet. She couldn't afford to replace them if they snagged. Bare-legged and shoeless, she loosened her tie and opened the top buttons of her beige shirt. This was about as comfortable as she dared make herself, unbidden in Foyle's house and without a nightgown.

Despite the thick, stiff material of her uniform, she fell asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.

…

Foyle woke up slowly. He didn't clearly remember how much whiskey he and Kieffer had consumed last night, but it was obviously too much if the queasiness in his stomach and the pounding in his head were any indication. He opened his eyes gradually and found, to his surprise, a glass of water along with some aspirin on his nightstand. Considering how he was feeling, he marvelled that he'd had the wherewithal last night to prepare for how he'd feel this morning. Nevertheless, he downed both very quickly before getting out of bed. The coolness of his room hit his naked skin and he shivered. He donned his pyjamas and dressing gown as quickly as he could, feeling tension leave his body as he warmed up. As he was about to leave his room, he noticed something else: on the chair across the room lay a neat pile of his clothes, carefully folded and stacked, tie on top. Again, he wondered at his own resources.

His journey downstairs was by no means quick. Despite the aspirin his head was still aching, and to be entirely honest he wanted nothing more than to crawl back under the covers and stay there. Instead, he quickly but thoroughly brushed his teeth, hoping to get rid of the disgusting taste in his mouth, and then braved the stairs.

Entering his kitchen, he stopped abruptly and felt his jaw drop. His brain clamoured for some explanation for what he was seeing. A kettle was on the stove and a tray of tea things were waiting for the water to boil. At the same time, a pan of scrambled eggs was being prepared to go with the plate of toast on the small kitchen table… by Sam. A barefoot Sam without her uniform jacket and tie, and with her hair down around her shoulders, smiling happily at him and looking for all the world as fresh as a morning rose.

"S-Sam?" he stuttered when his brain found no sensible reason for her presence. He vaguely remembered dreaming of her during the night, but…

"Morning, sir!" she greeted. "I'll have breakfast ready for you in a moment."

Just at that moment, the kettle began to whistle and she turned from the eggs to pour boiling water into his tea pot. Unsure of what to say, Foyle sat down and just looked at Sam as she finished the eggs and set them and the plate of toast in front of him, along with a cup of tea. Dazed though he was, he began to eat, knowing that despite his lack of appetite the food would do him good.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**AN: I just wanted to thank you all for taking the time to read this and for the lovely reviews I've received. This is the last chapter, so I hope you enjoy it! This is for MF.**

When reassured that Foyle would eat, Sam tucked into her own breakfast with enthusiasm. She wondered how much he remembered from last night—he'd obviously been shocked to see her in his kitchen; the expression on his face had reminded her so much of the one he wore when she first met him. Somehow the pyjamas and dressing gown made it all the more endearing.

"What are you doing here, Sam?" he asked, once he'd eaten almost half his breakfast and was feeling rather better.

Sam finished chewing a bit of toast, contemplating how to explain. In the end she decided to go with honesty. "I happened to be passing last night when you came home, and I thought I'd just make sure you were all right. You were rather magnificently smashed," she grinned cheekily.

Fragments of memories returned to him as she spoke, and he asked, "You made me tea?"

"Yes, sir," she nodded.

"And left aspirin and a glass of water in my room?"

"Yes, sir."

"And folded my clothes?"

"Yes, sir. After you'd crawled into bed and fallen asleep, mind."

"Oh," he said, blushing a little. "Um… thank you."

"My pleasure, sir."

For a few moments they were quiet, Foyle trying to figure out which parts of last night had been a dream and which hadn't. He certainly hoped that he hadn't actually kissed her.

"Did I…" he hesitated. "Did I, um, do anything last night?"

"Do anything, sir?"

"Anything… untoward. To you?"

"Oh! No, sir, not at all!"

Foyle sighed with relief. It _had _been a dream, after all.

"You were the perfect gentleman. In fact, you called me beautiful," she smiled wistfully. Foyle found it in himself to smile back. _Well,_ he thought with relief,_ of all the things I could have told her, that certainly isn't the worst._

"Yes, well, you are a very attractive young woman," he admitted awkwardly.

"And unattainable, apparently," she grinned. She'd pondered the situation all morning and had decided to confront him, hoping that his actions last night might indicate a certain amount of attraction, if not affection. He looked startled.

"Pardon?"

"Yes, you also said that I was 'completely unattainable' and that you shouldn't even think about it. Well, it was rather more of a mutter; I don't think you were actually speaking to me."

Shell-shocked, all Foyle could do was stare at the young woman who casually continued to eat her breakfast.

"And then," she continued after swallowing a mouthful of scrambled eggs, "There's that kiss."

"Kiss?" He was loath to admit it but he had squeaked in the most embarrassing fashion. He closed his eyes tightly, berating himself for his behaviour, wondering how much he had ruined between them. Sam didn't seem too bothered by it, but he wondered if she would ever trust him again now that she had probably guessed how much he longed for her. _Damn that Jack Daniel's_, he cursed silently.

"I, I… I do apologise, Sam. Being drunk is no excuse; I behaved boorishly and treated you in a way that is unforgivable. I'm awfully sorry."

"Oh, I don't mind, sir," she said airily. "But do you really see me as unattainable?"

He gave her a look. "I may have behaved like a cad last night, but I am not entirely deluded. I'm far too old for you."

She wasn't sure where she found the courage; perhaps it was simply the knowledge that he wasn't entirely indifferent to her. In any case, she moved closer to him and, reaching out to put her hands on his shoulders, placed herself gingerly on his knees. He looked utterly startled, but his hands hesitantly moved to her waist.

"I was rather disappointed when you kissed me, you know," Sam said mock-seriously. "I barely even had time to respond before you were gone."

She leaned in and kissed him softly on the lips. His eyes closed painfully as her mouth touched his and he was unable to move even as she kissed him less tentatively. He couldn't help himself; he responded to her touch, intensifying the kiss. Her mouth opened easily, allowing him to fervently taste her and explore her mouth with his tongue. Her lips were soft and she kissed him with an urgency that at the same time excited him and terrified him.

As her hands moved to his hair and played with the curls at the back of his head, he pulled away desperately.

"Please, Sam, don't. I know I behaved badly, but for the love of God please don't toy with me," he pleaded hoarsely, nevertheless holding on to her waist tightly.

"I'm not, sir," Sam responded seriously, caressing the side of his face. "I know you would never have said the things you did last night if you had been stone cold sober, but I'm so glad you _did_ say them. So awfully, awfully glad. And that kiss last night… I can't tell you how long I've dreamed of you doing that. The truth is I always saw _you_ as rather unattainable."

"Sam, I'm…"

"Please don't say you're old. I really… Tell you the truth; I think you're really quite splendid. Boys my age are so… well, they're awfully immature and self-centred, I'm afraid."

"Haven't met the right man yet, I suppose," he said quietly, his face twisting. It hurt him to say it and as soon as the words had left his mouth, Sam sprang off his lap, pulling away from him violently.

"But I _have_ met the right man, don't you see?" she asked intensely. "And if last night was any indication, I shouldn't think you were repulsed by me! Of course, if last night was just a drunken mistake, please do tell me now and I'll never mention it again. I was just silly enough to think that your kissing me might mean you'd not be adverse to a… to a perfectly presentable young woman letting you know that she thinks you're the most wonderful man she's ever met!" Sam was embarrassed to admit it, but her eyes were actually filling with angry, desperate tears. Foyle's eyes were closed as though he were in pain and his head was tilted forward as it often was when he thought.

"Sam," he finally said, his voice low and so fraught with emotion she could barely recognise it as his. "I'm not repulsed, never could be, but you're so young and… and I'm not sure I could… bear it… if we were to, um, become… um, intimate," he blushed, afraid that she might take it to mean sexually intimate when in reality he meant intimate romantically, "and you changed your mind. I'm not sure I could bear losing you."

"And you think that because I'm young, I'm liable to change my mind from one moment to the next? I've loved you, _sir_, without any hope of reciprocation," she stumbled on the word, "for the better part of two years and seeing as I didn't manage to quell my feelings for you when I tried, I don't think you have any reason to doubt them now!"

It was terrible, she decided, that she was feeling so emotional and out of control. How was she to convince him that she was mature enough to know what she wanted, convince him to take a chance with her, when she couldn't even stop the tears from rolling down her cheeks or her voice from breaking? Maybe she shouldn't, she thought crossly, still unconvinced that he was romantically interested in her. Maybe he'd been thinking of Rosalind when he kissed her last night? He was drunk, after all! But no, her heart protested, quickly backed up by a memory from the previous evening: he'd murmured her name while he slept.

"You tried to quell your feelings for me?" Foyle asked despite himself, moved by the sight of the distressed young woman in his kitchen but unsure of what he could do or say to soothe her.

"Of course I did!" Sam sputtered indignantly. "Do you think I enjoyed it? Being in love with a man who is not only my superior officer, but also still in love with his late wife and completely indifferent to me romantically?"

"I'm not… indifferent," Foyle said awkwardly, rubbing his thumb and middle finger over his brow. Sam looked at him pointedly.

"Aren't you?"

Of course he wasn't. He'd known that for far too long to deny it, but the problem wasn't whether he _was_ indifferent but whether he _should_ be indifferent. And regardless of how completely, utterly in love with her he was, the answer to that second question must always be a resounding _yes_!

The agony that played across his face made Sam kneel in front of him and place one of her hands on his cheek. Their eyes met and for a moment she couldn't breathe; there was such vulnerability in his eyes as he lifted his hand to place it over hers.

"Aren't you?" she repeated, softly this time.

"I am not indifferent!" he stated almost vehemently. "I am the furthest thing from indifferent." His eyes closed painfully again.

"Do you want me, sir?"

"God help me, _yes_! But it's not… just that. I need you, Sam, and I don't just mean… in my… in my bed. If it hadn't been for you, do you have any idea how bleak my life would have been these last few years? Worried about Andrew, feeling as though my work meant nothing but unable to get a post where I'd do something relevant…"

Though astounded at the amount of words suddenly spilling from him and exultant at what they implied, Sam nevertheless quieted the dear man, longing to feel his warm lips against her own again. The kiss was brief and sweet.

"You brought the light back into my life," he said tenderly when they parted.

"Then isn't that the only thing that matters?" Sam asked, resting her forehead against his.

"I—" he began to protest, but was cut off when she placed her fingers on his lips.

"All doubts, all misgivings about your age or mine, and all the difficulties we may or may not face aside… I love you. And if you love me, I don't think anything else is important. As long as I am yours and you are mine, I won't ask for anything else."

His eyes searched hers and he whispered, "I _am_ yours, darling."

"Good then," she summed up, all business.

And he laughed as he pressed his lips to hers.

END


End file.
